The first time I saw him, I thought: That's a tax bracket I'll never meet.
He was standing by the bar - or no, not quite by it. A careful three feet away, like even proximity to the help might compromise something. His suit was this muted silver that probably cost more than my car. If I still had a car.
I wasn't supposed to be here. The invitation had shown up under my door two weeks ago, gold envelope, fancy script, the works. I'd googled the address twice before I believed it was real. Even then, I almost didn't come. But rent was due and I had this stupid thought: What if this is how normal people get discovered? What if someone important needs a-
What? A struggling copywriter who can't even afford the dress she's wearing?
Yeah. That.
The chandeliers were doing too much. Everything in here was doing too much - the ice sculptures, the champagne towers, the woman near the window whose necklace could probably fund a small nation. I felt like I was wearing a costume to someone else's life.
And then he looked at me.
Not a glance. A full, deliberate stare that lasted about three seconds too long to be polite. I looked down at my champagne flute like it had just asked me a question.
When I looked back up, he was still watching.
Stop it, I thought. You're imagining things. Rich people don't stare. They assess property values.
I moved toward the appetizer table because standing still felt dangerous. Grabbed a crostini I didn't want. Checked my phone. No new messages. Obviously. Who texts you at a gala?
"You look lost."
I nearly dropped the crostini.
He was right there. Up close, he was worse - sharp jawline, perfectly trimmed everything, eyes that were some complicated shade between gray and blue that I'm sure had a name like "slate" or "pewter" or something else expensive.
"I'm not lost," I said, which was a lie. "Just... taking it all in."
"Mm." He didn't sound convinced. "You came alone?"
"Is that against the rules?"
His mouth did this thing - not quite a smile, more like he'd remembered smiles existed. "There are no rules here. Just... expectations."
I waited for him to elaborate. He didn't.
"Aria Hale," I said finally, because the silence was getting weird.
"I know."
That stopped me. "How?"
"I make it my business to know who's in the room." He tilted his head slightly, studying me like I was a puzzle he'd already solved but found mildly interesting anyway. "You're not supposed to be here."
My stomach dropped. "Excuse me?"
"The invitation. It was meant for someone else." He said it so casually, like he was commenting on the weather. "Aria Hale. Not Aria Hall. Different person. Different address. Clerical error."
I should've been embarrassed. Horrified, even. Instead, I felt something sharper - anger, maybe, or just the hot sting of being found out.
"So you're kicking me out?"
"No." He said it quickly. Too quickly. Then, slower: "I'm just... clarifying."
"Right. Clarifying that I don't belong."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to."
We stood there, locked in this stupid standoff while violins played something pretty and pointless in the background. He looked like he wanted to say something else but couldn't figure out how.
Finally: "Alexander Sterling."
"I know," I said, echoing him. Because of course I knew. Everyone knew.
His expression shifted - surprise, maybe? Or annoyance. Hard to tell with a face that controlled.
"Stay," he said. "If you want."
It wasn't warm. Wasn't even particularly kind. But it also wasn't a dismissal.
"Why?" I asked.
He considered the question longer than it deserved. "Because I'm curious what you'll do next."
Then he walked away, leaving me standing there with a half-eaten crostini and the distinct feeling I'd just failed a test I didn't know I was taking.
I lasted another forty minutes before I needed air.
The problem with crashing rich people parties is that you can't just be there. You have to perform being there. Laugh at the right volume. Hold your glass at the right angle. Pretend you understand the difference between a Monet and a Manet when someone asks.
(I didn't. Still don't.)
I found myself in the service hallway because it was the only place without marble floors and judgmental lighting. A woman in catering blacks gave me a look but didn't say anything. Maybe she clocked the borrowed dress. Maybe she just didn't care.
I was staring at a faded motivational poster - something about teamwork and eagles -when I heard his voice again.
"Hiding?"
I turned. Alexander Sterling was leaning against the doorframe like he'd been there for a while. He'd loosened his tie. It made him look almost human.
"Escaping," I corrected.
"From?"
"The violins. The small talk. The woman who asked if I summered in the Hamptons." I paused. "I don't even winter in the Hamptons."
That almost-smile again. "Neither do I."
"Liar."
"I have a house there," he admitted. "I've been twice. Once for a funeral, once to sell it. Still own it, apparently. My assistant handles these things."
It was the most normal thing he'd said all night, and I didn't know what to do with it.
"Why are you here?" I asked. Not here at the gala - here, in a service hallway, talking to me.
He looked at me for a long moment. Then: "I saw you leave. You looked... I don't know. Like you were about to bolt."
"And you followed me to make sure I didn't steal the silverware on my way out?"
"I followed you because - He stopped. Exhaled. "I don't know."
The honesty surprised me. And maybe him, too, because he looked away first this time.
"I should get back," I said, even though I didn't want to.
"Or you could leave. I could have my driver take you home."
"I'm not getting in a car with a stranger."
"We've been introduced."
"Barely."
"Fine. Then let me call you a car. On my account." He was already pulling out his phone. "Where do you live?"
I told him. Not because I trusted him, exactly. But because my feet hurt and the subway at midnight felt like asking for trouble, and maybe -maybe -I wanted to see what he'd do next.
The car arrived in four minutes. Black. Expensive. The kind with bottled water and phone chargers.
Alexander walked me to the door. The cold air made his breath visible.
"Thank you," I said. "For... not kicking me out, I guess."
"I wouldn't have." He hesitated, then: "The invitation. It wasn't a mistake."
I blinked. "You just said –"
"I said it was meant for someone else. It was. But I had it redirected." He looked uncomfortable admitting this, like he wasn't used to explaining himself. "I saw your profile on LinkedIn. You're a writer. You wrote that piece about –" He waved a hand vaguely. "The gentrification thing. In Brooklyn."
I'd written it eight months ago for a blog that paid in exposure. Seventeen people had read it.
"You read that?"
"I read a lot of things." He opened the car door for me. "Good night, Aria Hale."
I got in because I didn't know what else to do. The driver pulled away, and I watched Alexander Sterling get smaller in the side mirror until he disappeared into the crowd of people who belonged there.
My apartment building looked especially depressing after the gala. Peeling paint. Flickering hallway lights. The smell of someone's burnt dinner.
I was halfway up the stairs when I saw it: another gold envelope, tucked under my door.
My hands shook as I opened it.
The Sterling Foundation Gala - Winter Edition
December 15th
This invitation is non-transferable
And underneath, in actual handwriting:
This one's really for you. -A.S.
I stood there for a long time, holding the card, trying to figure out if this was the beginning of something or just a really elaborate way to mess with the help.
Either way, I was probably going to show up.
God help me.